The Harem Bride (27 page)

But any opportunity Penny might have had for
a private coze with Helen Seagrave was soon knocked to flinders,
for no sooner had the countess accepted a cup of tea from Mrs.
Seagrave than the elderly maid-of-all-work opened the door to Mrs.
Tabitha Houghton and Mary. The squire’s wife burst into the small,
but nicely appointed salon, like a ship under full sail, Miss Mary
trailing like a dinghy in her wake.

As befitted the wife of the local squire,
Mrs. Matthew Houghton dominated village life. Although she gave
proper deference to the county’s noble landowners, no one was left
in doubt about who ruled the roost during the many months her
titled neighbors spent in London, Bath, and Brighton, or enjoyed
hunting with the Quorn or shooting in Scotland. Tabitha Houghton’s
appearance was as imposing as her voice, a stentorian cry of which
a parade sergeant might have been proud. In combination with her
height and a sturdy girth that seemed twice that of her daughter,
Tabitha Houghton presented an altogether intimidating presence that
eclipsed Mary’s quiet attractiveness.

There was a flurry of shifting seats as Helen
Seagrave and her spinster aunt, Miss Ainsley, promptly effaced
themselves to allow Mrs. Houghton and Mary to sit beside Helen’s
mother on their somewhat threadbare sofa. “Have you heard?” the
squire’s wife boomed, casting but the slightest of nods at the four
ladies already seated in the room. “Fenwick Manor is let at last. A
widow from the city, I’m told. The squire says I may send her a
card for my musical evening, for he has been assured she moves in
the first circles in London. A fine addition to our society, I am
sure, for I fear we are much too quiet,” she added with patently
false modesty. Then recalling that one of those present was the
Countess of Rocksley, Tabitha Houghton smiled thinly and declared,
“Of course we are much livelier now that Rocksley is, at last,
spending time at Rockbourne Crest.” She flashed the countess a
wolfish smile. “Lord Rocksley plans to attend my musical evening,
does he not, my lady? We should be quite desolate, I’m sure, if he
did not join us.”

Penny, who was certain Jason would part with
a goodly number of guineas if only he could buy his way out of this
social obligation smiled blandly and assured Mrs. Houghton that not
only would the earl attend but so would his two guests, if the
squire’s hospitality could be stretched to include two single
gentlemen just down from London.

This exciting news immediately diverted
all thoughts from Fenwick Manor and its new resident.
Two London gentlemen!
While Tabitha
Houghton held forth to Mrs. Seagrave and Miss Ainsley on the
immense possibilities of such an addition to their social circle,
the three younger ladies put their heads together, speaking in
whispers.

Miss Helen Seagrave, at three and twenty, had
been on the verge of conceding that life had passed her by when
Adrian Stanmore had introduced her to the Countess of Rocksley and,
for some unaccountable reason—similarity of age or perhaps a
recognition that the drab façade of each hid a liveliness of
spirit—Penny had instantly taken her up.

Miss Seagrave possessed a pair of speaking
gray eyes, set in a serene face, which was seldom allowed to shine,
as, in an effort to appear old enough to be an instructor of music,
she had confined her lustrous brown hair in an unbecoming coif and
put on her caps at a very early age. A disguise that had not fooled
Penny one whit, perhaps because she, too, knew what it was to hide
her light beneath a bushel basket. Helen Seagrave was a woman of
lively mind and ready wit, and the countess was quite determined to
improve her new friend’s status in the world. Helen would make a
splendid vicar’s wife, she was certain of it.

Though what she could do for poor Mary,
who did not have the gumption to say boo to a goose, she was at a
loss to imagine. As Penny imparted what she knew about Lord Brawley
and Mr. Dinsmore to the avid ears of her two listeners, she
re-examined her plans. Mr. Dinsmore
might
do for Mary, though Lord Brawley was, of
course, quite hopeless. Although she could not help but like
him—for she sensed a genuine sympathy beneath his cynical
demeanor—she could not envision him as anything other than a
lifelong bachelor.

“
Ah, look!” hissed Miss Ainsley, as the
sound of a four-horse team caused her to peer out the window.
Without a thought to their dignity, five of the six ladies (for
Mrs. Seagrave remained languidly displayed upon the sofa) rushed to
the window, where a glossily painted, though heavily laden, coach
was passing by, revealing a glimpse of what appeared to be a grand
London lady in a modish bonnet topped by a marvelous curl of
matching ostrich feathers.

“
Headed for Fenwick Manor, no doubt,”
declared Mrs. Houghton. “And very grand she is, I’m sure. Yet I
daresay she will attend my musical evening as long as
you
do so, Lady Rocksley,” Tabitha
Houghton opined. “To be sure, the squire must call upon her this
very day.”

“
Do you know the lady’s name, ma’am?”
Penny inquired.

Mrs. Houghton frowned. “Crimshaw . . .
Calworthy . . . no, Colby . . . Cole . . . something of that
nature. I fear I did not properly attend. Mr. Houghton will impart
the whole of it soon enough. Come, Mary, it’s time we finished our
errands.” So saying, the squire’s wife swept out of the Seagrave
cottage, with every intention, as they all knew, of visiting each
and every one of her cronies to impart the exciting announcement of
the newcomer’s arrival.

Penny, with a touch of Lord Brawley’s
cynicism, realized for the first time how great the furor must have
been when news of the earl’s marriage had burst upon the village.
But that was a subject she wished to avoid. With something that
might have been termed mutual sighs of relief, Penny and Helen
settled down to a pleasant exposition of the fine qualities of
Cranmere’s vicar, Adrian Stanmore, as opposed to the somewhat
dubious reputations of the two gentlemen from London. If Miss
Seagrave had so much as a soupçon of curiosity about Lord Brawley
or Mr. Dinsmore, she gave no hint of it.

The Countess of Rocksley returned from the
village with a scant half hour to dress before dinner, so it was
only when all were gathered for sherry that she was able to recount
the tale of the new arrival to her mama-in-law. “You would scarce
credit it, ma’am,” Penny declared with a self-deprecating grin.
“There we were, the five of us, attempting to peer out the window
at the same time, standing on tippy-toes, craning our necks, while
keeping far enough back from the lace curtain to hope we might not
be seen. Later, I fear Miss Seagrave and I were overcome by a mix
of hilarity and chagrin when we realized how shockingly provincial
our behavior must have seemed if the lady had but looked in our
direction.”

“
Are you quite certain she was a
lady
?” the dowager
inquired.

“
Oh, yes. Mrs. Houghton seemed to know
all about her. She plans to call on her and leave a card for her
musical evening.”

“
If she has the squire’s approval, then
I suppose we must call upon the lady as well—”

“
No!” The roar of disapproval came
simultaneously from three male throats.

The Dowager Countess of Rocksley turned a
basilisk stare on her son, whose look of anguished embarrassment
was all too clear before he dropped his eyes to the complex pattern
of the Persian carpet.

“
I believe,” said Lord Brawley,
stepping smoothly into the breach, “that we thought you might wish
to reserve judgment until you have met the lady at the squire’s
musical evening.”

The dowager knew a faradiddle when she heard
it. And sincerely hoped her daughter-in-law did not. For she very
much feared the identity of the newcomer was neither unknown to the
three gentlemen present nor did it bode well for her son’s
fledgling marriage. Truly, he had been in short coats the last time
she had seen him look so guilty.

With exquisite timing, Hutton announced
dinner. If a slight frown creased the lovely countenance of the
younger Countess of Rocksley as she went in to dinner on Lord
Brawley’s arm—a look that indicated she was attempting to solve a
puzzle—the others could only be grateful she had not yet reached
the correct conclusion. Mr. Dinsmore, his voice somewhat louder and
higher than usual, carried the brunt of the dinner conversation,
recounting the latest
on
dits
, including some of the more colorful incidents in
Caro Lamb’s pursuit of Lord Byron. Lord Brawley interjected his
usual sarcastic jibes, but even Penny could see his heart wasn’t in
it. Jason’s demeanor throughout the several removes seldom relaxed
from an outright scowl. The dowager made several attempts to
converse in a normal manner, but a strained aura hovered over them,
like the heaviness before a thunderstorm. And it all had something
to do with the stylish newcomer in the elegant coach. Of that Penny
was certain, although her duties as hostess at this awkward meal
precluded her analyzing just what the problem could be. When she
had Jason alone . . .

But he might not come to her tonight. After
all, he had not come the night before, though she had not found
this surprising, as it was inevitable he would stay up late talking
with his friends. But tonight? Perhaps she should be greatly daring
and go to him, for there was a mystery here, and, even though she
was nearly certain she would not like the answer, she was
determined to solve the riddle.

But the earl did not linger with his friends
that night. Although he was still roundly cursing Fate for saddling
him with so many disasters, he left his friends to amuse themselves
at billiards and—after enduring slaps on the back and pithy
comments on how to divert his wife’s wrath—he changed into his
dressing gown and dismissed his valet. Perhaps if he selected a bit
of jewelry from the family vault . . .? No. Gentlemen bought off
their mistresses, not their wives. Jason then recalled all the fine
new pieces of jewelry worn by the wives of acquaintances who were
blatantly engaged with a ladybird or with other men’s wives, and
sighed. Jewelry, it seemed, was tantamount to an admission of
guilt. Therefore, he must go to his wife empty-handed.

The trouble was, he was also
empty-headed. For all his much vaunted wit and
savoir faire
, he could think of no satisfactory
way to inform his wife that his mistress had followed him to
Shropshire.
Hell and the devil confound
it!
He had enough problems with his marriage without
Daphne taking a page from Caro Lamb’s book.

The earl could hear the drum tattoo and
rattle of the tumbril as he made the long walk through the dressing
rooms to his wife’s bedchamber. Half-way across Penny’s dressing
room, Jason paused, his single candle casting wavering light over
his wife’s colorful new gowns and rows of matching slippers. The
scent of lavender wafted past his nose, yet he could almost swear
he detected the more exotic perfumes of the East, tantalizing his
senses beneath the solid odors of a proper English garden.

Penny Blayne
.
A charming young bud of femininity transformed into the enchanting
seductive odalisque, Gulbeyaz. Then, with a snap of Cassandra
Pemberton’s man-hating fingers, into a forbiddingly proper,
stiff-spined Englishwoman only grudgingly willing to perform her
wifely duties.

Unfair. She might not be Gulbeyaz, the White
Rose, but their nights of passion had been far from one-sided. And
yet . . . his wife continued to hold something back. Love, perhaps.
And why should she not, when he had given his heart to his harem
bride and could not seem to bridge the gap to her present
incarnation?

If they had lived together from the
beginning, what would their life be like now? Would he have
resented being tied down so young? Would he have taken a mistress?
Would they now be playing this same scene, even though the third
floor nursery was well occupied with so-called pledges of their
affection?

Unfortunately, the answer to all three
questions was quite possibly
yes
.

But would his mistress have made the insane
move of following him to Shropshire?

He had arrived at his wife’s door. Jason,
making a valiant effort to paste a pleasant expression on his face,
lifted the latch and walked in.

~ * ~

At first he did not see her. Plainly, the
bed, so carefully turned down by a chamber maid, was empty. Ridding
himself of the glare of his candle by setting it on his wife’s
dressing table, Jason allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. And
there she was . . . tucked up on a cushioned window seat, bathed in
moonlight, the flounces of that remarkable dressing gown tumbling
in a cascade to the carpet. Dear God, he had never felt less like
forcing himself to a serious discussion. All he wanted—all any man
could want in such a situation—was . . .

Grimly, the earl picked up the delicate chair
that matched his wife’s dressing table and moved it to within a
foot of her elaborate flounces. Without a word, he sat, noting with
some trepidation that her gaze was still fixed on the gardens
below, shimmering in all the beauty of a warm June night.

“
You suspect the worst, do you not?” he
said at last.

“
I am not a complete fool, my lord,
although my laggardness in understanding what should have been as
plain as a box to the ear, shames me. Such a sad length of time for
me to make sense of Mrs. Houghton’s attempts at the lady’s name.
Your friends’ arrival, their sly looks and whisperings, your mama’s
shock and valiant attempt to recover. Yet there is nothing new in
my ignorance, is there, my lord? As always, in spite of my advanced
age, I am the naive child; you, the sophisticated rake—”